


Hope

by makesometime



Category: Man of Steel (2013)
Genre: F/M, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-19
Updated: 2013-06-19
Packaged: 2017-12-15 12:10:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/849407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/makesometime/pseuds/makesometime
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He's weak when she comes to see him. </p><p>Weak and so frustrated, stripped of everything that has ever made him different, everything he has always wanted to be free of. He's human, now, after so many years. And it's the worst thing that could have happened.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hope

**Author's Note:**

> Missing scene/AU (sadly) after Clark and Lois are brought before Zod. I can't even with these two.

He's weak when she comes to see him.

Weak and so frustrated, stripped of everything that has ever made him different, everything he has always wanted to be free of. He's human, now, after so many years. And it's the worst thing that could have happened.

Shackled to the sterile surface of the medical bay bed, he watches his fellow Kryptonians as they hold hushed, frantic conversations that his human ears can't decipher. He resists the urge to rage against his captivity, to struggle and shout impotently. It would only give them some perverse enjoyment, to see him so undone. The last son of Krypton, a mere mortal brought low for their amusement.

Regardless, the look on the woman's face as she enters the room, booted feet making rhythmic contact with the metal floor than makes his tender head pound, is nothing short of the highest satisfaction. Her lips are curled into a smirk, blue eyes shining with a perverse pleasure she doesn't even attempt to hide. Clark fights not to watch her, tipping his head back to stare impassively at the ceiling. But it is too late. She's seen enough.

"Kal-El." She greets, a healthy measure of contempt in her simple utterance. "I am glad to see you awake once more."

He exhales sharply, regarding her with barely concealed disdain. "You'll forgive me if I don't believe that."

The woman smiles a little, tilting her head as she studies him, eyes flickering over every feature of his face in naked curiosity. "It is true, son of El. There is very little enjoyment for me in your unconsciousness."

"I am not here for your enjoyment."

She hums, stepping closer. Her hand comes to rest on his knee, and Clark denies the warmth that floods through his body at the contact. "Are you not?"

Clenching his jaw, Clark looks away once more, focusing on the ceiling. He can still see her cast an eye over the room, awaits her next move with an inescapable sense of anticipation. When it comes, his resulting shudder cannot be suppressed, only considered: is it one of pleasure, or disgust?

"Release him."

The command is hesitantly accepted, murmurs of dissent and concern chased away by the woman's glare. Her power and status (given by her General in return for a loyalty Clark would be foolish to forget) begets her her every wish, no matter how ill advised. The man who took his blood hovers anxiously on the other side of his bed, unwilling to risk a superior officer's wrath while still accepting they wouldn't act without the General's permission.

"Do it." The woman says. "Or I shall ensure your subordination does not go unreported."

The threat is enough to make the man comply, and he steps back with a sharp nod once Clark's wrists are free.

"Leave us." She intones, the words a harsh purr that promises much and does little to hide her anticipation of their resulting seclusion.

Clark watches the Kryptonians trail from the room in silent obedience, allows himself to attempt to rise as the door closes behind them. His movement is halted almost before it begins, the woman slamming a hand onto his shoulder and forcing him back into the bed with a strength her lithe form disguises. He winces, feeling his bones crunch beneath her palm.

"What was the point in releasing me if you won't let me up?" He asks through gritted teeth.

She chuckles. "The illusion of hope."

Clark knows better than to struggle. To provide her with entertainment in his acts of futility. His best option (he ignores that it is likely his _only_ option) is words, speech. He is no position to make a show of strength.

"If you're going to hold me captive, it would be polite to introduce yourself."

He smiles at the flash of annoyance in her eyes, knowing his choice was the right one. Insult her pride, her position. Engage her in a battle of will.

"As I mentioned before, I am Faora, daughter of Ul, right hand of our great General Zod." Her hands tighten on his shoulder and knee. "You will do well to remember this time."

"My apologies." Clark says. "I struggle with the minor details. You weren't mentioned in my father's history lesson."

Faora growls, forcing him back into the bed again. Her face is dangerously close to his, their breath mingling as she stares him down. Her pride is bruised but her physical form is her power and Clark notes the exact moment she remembers this. Her narrowed gaze turns cool, calculating. Her fingers become more of a caress as she returns to standing beside him.

"Tell me." She says, trailing the hand at his knee upwards, inching along his thigh. She is keeping her touch light, but it remains impossibly heavy in his weakened state. "How does it feel to finally be human, as you have always desired?"

#

Faora allows herself to feel a little satisfaction at the offence Kal-El takes at her question. It's intriguing, no doubt - is he irritated simply by his lack of strength, or at the association with such weak little beings as the human race? She wishes for the latter, with a fierceness that takes her by surprise; she wants this man to accept his heritage, and she wants to be the catalyst for such change. The pride in such success would be immeasurable.

But first, perhaps, a little mischief.

Her hand comes to a rest just below his hip, her fingers curled suggestively over the impressive muscle of his thigh. She raises an eyebrow when he shifts uncomfortably beneath her, regards him with interest.

"Is something the matter, son of El?" She asks, the words tripping from her lips with a zeal that she normally reserves for the field of combat.

He shoves her hand away and she stumbles, laughing to herself. He is acclimatising well to their environment... slowly, but well. She resumes her position at his side, noting the way his eyes follow her form, noting his interest. Her hand finds its way to his stomach, fingers dancing up his chest to toy with the red symbol there.

"Hope." She murmurs. “Foolish...”

“For you, perhaps.”

Faora scoffs, removing her hands and clasping them behind her back. “It appears you are going to be less cooperative than I thought.” She takes a step back. “Perhaps it is time to seek out someone more amenable...”

She doesn’t have a chance to turn from him before he’s upright, shouting in frustration as he flies from the bed. His hands grip her hips and he forces her backwards until she collides with the opposite wall. The breath is forced from her body in a gasp that is only partly pain and surprise, and her lips curl into a satisfied smirk.

“You do _not_ have the right to use innocent people against me.” He spits, hands hard and unyielding around her waist.

“I do not require your _permission_ , Kal-El.” She returns, delighting in the way his lip curls in disgust at her words.

She takes advantage of his anger, his distraction and forces him away from her and around, faster than his eyes can follow, until he is pinned up against the bulkhead beside where her back was seconds previously. It creaks, metal grinding on metal as she presses hard on his shoulders and his grunt of pain is music to her ears.

"Careful." She says, a soft chastisement that is openly mocking. "I'm very much certain you aren't aware of what you're dealing with."

He shoves back, flipping her again - she lets him, even if she could stop it easily. He's piqued her curiosity with his continued defiance.

"Why don't you show me, instead of making threats?" He counters. "Or are your actions as empty as your words?"

He's challenging her. It's so sweet and misguided it makes her laugh as her nails tighten her grip around his biceps.

“Show you?” She echoes, rising up to the balls of her feet to share the same air as him once more. She cocks her head. “Very well.”

Whatever he’s expecting it’s not her lips slamming into his, biting and sucking at his mouth with unconcealed aggression. Faora captures his lower lip between her teeth and tugs, feeling his groan as a tickle between her lips. He responds quicker than she expected, hauling her up against him and returning her kiss with as much fervour as she initiated it. She bites down a moan, unwilling to give him any sense of her approval even as he forces his thigh higher between her own. She steals a breath when he makes contact with her core but she’s back to stroking her tongue along the seam of his lips before he can notice.

In a heartbeat Kal has her wrists in a bruising grip, forcing them above her head as he rams her back into the wall. The metal yields slightly to their force and Faora instinctively wraps a leg around his hips, twisting her hands in grip. He smiles against her lips and then there’s a sharp hint of pain as he pulls away, leaving her with a split lip and the taste of copper in her mouth.

She smiles through the tug of her new wound, licking over the abrasion as her chest heaves against his own. He’s watching her with a careful mixture of disdain and arousal and she knows precisely what to do with such naked emotion.

“You do surprise me.” She smiles, arching into him.

“That wasn’t my intention.”

“No?” She asks, leaning in to nip at his chin. “You’ll forgive me if I don’t believe that.” She says, his earlier words perfect for repetition.

“Really, I was just trying to get you to shut up.” He says, the corner of his mouth ticking up. Pleased with himself.

Unacceptable.

Faora scowls as she captures his lips anew, using her still superior strength to force them backwards until he is seated on the end of the bed, she over his lap. Her hands are frenzied in tugging his ridiculous red cape away, quick fingers finding the fastening down his back and pulling it open as quickly as his own questing hands will allow.

Pieces of her armor hit the floor with loud metallic clangs, littering the area around the bed as she grinds down on him. He is breathing harshly, still not entirely used to the atmosphere on board and it gives her an intense pleasure to have regained the upper hand. She drags the suit down over his chest, forcing him to remove his hands from her. The temptation to leave him bound by his own symbols of the history he intends to deny is great but it would ultimately deny her too and that… that is simply not going to happen. Not now.

She lifts up to her knees to push the suit down and reveal his torso completely. She hums her approval, leaning in to run her mouth along his shoulder. When his hands find her ass and pull her sharply down into him she hisses, biting down on the strong line of muscle, hard enough to break the skin and leave flecks of red in her wake, marking him. Owning.

He’s given in to her entirely but he hasn’t given _up_ , his palms smoothing up over her back to locate the fastenings of her mail. She shuffles back when his fingers loosen the neckline, coming to her feet and kicking off her boots before shrugging the remainder of her outfit to leave her nude before him.

He stares and it feels like winning.

It is easy to walk towards him, head held high and proud. She has nothing left to doubt, after all. No uncertainty, no fear. This man wants her, it makes no difference now where he was born, or where he calls home. He is hers for the taking, and she will do just that.

“This is your first time, is it not? With a _real_ woman?” She asks, holding his head so that he cannot look away from her. “Such a shame. You've never known what it's like... to be with someone who can match you so completely.”

He casts his gaze down, denying the impact of her words. Faora is not stupid, she caught the fierce flash of want in his eyes before he looked away from her, and she will use it to goad him further.

Her hands wrap around the free ends of his suit and quickly remove the remnants, baring him completely. She smiles as she notices his hands gripping the bed, knuckles white, and wonders what's he's fighting. Touching her? His body betrays him, standing proud under her approving, heated gaze.

This will do very nicely. Her reward from the House of El for surviving the treachery of her people.

She hums to herself as she observes his tense resistance, enjoying his token display. Eventually he lifts his head and glares at her, frustration radiating off him in waves. His hands flex several times before he reaches for her, pulling her between his legs. She shoots a smile to the ceiling as his mouth finds her breast, biting and sucking in equal measure, drawing her nipples to aching peaks which she expects he has every intention to abuse. It's glorious, and she threads her fingers through his hair as she allows him this, for a time. To return the illusion of hope, just for a while.

“You have never been able to give yourself to another completely...” She says quietly as he pants against her slick chest. Her hand slips down to wrap around his length. “Have you, son of El?”

She can hear the grinding of his teeth as he battles the urge to retaliate, battles the _need_ to thrust into her slowly pumping fist.

"How lucky then, that I found you." She says, pushing sharply on his shoulders until he falls back against the bed.

"Lucky isn't the word I would use." He says, settling himself more comfortably as she climbs over him, sitting across his thighs.

"No?" She queries, skirting her hands up his thighs. Her palms curve over the sharp dips of his hip bones and she scratches his skin. "Fortuitous? Opportune?" She leans forward to lick along the underside of his erection, smirks as his hands fist at his side. "What would you call it, Kal?"

He stubbornly refuses to answer, looking pleased with his decision when she tuts, frustrated. He is denying her wish for verbal competition, a battle forged with words as much as actions. In response she leans forward, taking him into the heat of her mouth, applying harsh suction as she lifts off. She runs her tongue along her lower lip slowly, judging.

"No response? How disappointing."

He acts almost the second the words have left her lips, his speed and dexterity ever increasing. Hands curl around her waist and tug her sharply forward, until he is nestled along the length of her core, hot and so hard against her wet heat.

She lets out a breathy moan against her will but it is drowned out by his louder cry, by the way his hips rock instinctively into her.

"Initiative." She breathes. "I approve."

"About time." He responds, his tone actually causing her laughter to be genuine, somewhat delighted.

Faora is made for action, direct and to the point. But it has been such a time since she took a man like this, for lingering, indirect pleasure instead of fast and clinical necessary stress relief, that that urge to rock against his length a while is impossible to ignore. She moves slowly, feeling him slide along her slick core, the head of him teasing her entrance before tracking back to her clit. Kal's fingertips squeeze her hips hard enough to mark, guiding, searching and needing this just as much.

With a simple cant of her hips she takes him inside, easing down and letting him stretch her inch by inch. He fills her with ease, and Faora watches the muscles in his neck cord as he stifles his true reaction. She brushes her thumb over his lips, chuckling when he nips at its pad with a grumbled, broken moan.

"Speak, Kal. Let me hear you." She urges.

He grimaces when she clenches around him, but otherwise remains steadfast in his passivity, determined to frustrate her desires. In war she is all direct action, quick choices and no second thoughts. Those traits have no place here, a time for desperate touches and proof of their enhanced stamina. And still he will not move back against her.

She leans over him, pressing her breasts to the sculpted plane of his chest. She meets his eyes and it is only then she understands, recognises his restraint for what it really is. Fear. Concern.

For her, not himself.

Her mouth twists awkwardly into a simple smile, and she can see the exact moment he understands the source of her amusement.

Silly little Kryptonian. Mistaking her for one of his human women, despite everything.

“Give in, Kal-El. You will not break me.”

He bears his teeth, thrusting up into her and launching them from the bed, her back colliding with the wall and, as before, making her gasp. The move buries him deeper within her and she chuckles, winding her legs around his hips.

His hand between her folds is a surprise as it seeks out her nerves and she snarls, gritting her teeth against the burn of pleasure it invokes. Kal wears the look of every man who has a minor triumph in moments such as this, he can feel the flutter of her walls around him as he switches his angle, moves his hand faster.

"Is this what you want?" He taunts, pinching her to almost the point of pain. "Is this enough?"

She laughs delightedly, sensation licking at her limbs, dancing up her spine. "It is... an adequate start."

He growls, burying his face in the curve of her neck as his pumps his hips with a constant force, not frenzied, not yet, far too measured and aware of his impact. He is well versed in this, in the act of loving a woman…

A human woman. She still has much to teach him.

“Harder.” She groans, clasping his shoulders. “I can barely feel you.”

His teeth sink into her throat in response to her insult, blunt nails scratching over her clit. She laughs, clamping down on him with each retraction, each build up to his next thrust. It’s good, his length brushing over her walls in a way that would normally undo her swiftly… but this man is too hesitant still, too uncertain.

“More, Kal.” She insists.

He lifts his head to snarl at her insult, kissing her roughly before pulling her away from the wall, spinning them until she is seated where he was previously. He pulls out of her and drops to his knees, hooking her legs over his shoulders and ducking his head to pull her clit between his lips, hesitation clearly long forgotten.

His fingers probe and curl, relentless now in pursuit of her release. She can do nothing more than throw her head back and breathe, clawing at his shoulders as he works her over without any of his previous concerns. Her thighs clamp down on either side of his head and she feels his lips curve against her. She blames the fact that she doesn’t care on the rush of blood in her ears and the pleasure flooding her every cell, blooming in her nerve endings.

“ _Yes_.” She hisses, rolling her hips into the press of his fingers, the nip of his teeth.

He will not rest until he has brought her end, has earned her approval and shown his true abilities. It’s a symptom of their kind, an unwillingness to be beaten that even years on this strange little planet can’t have chased away and all it needed was a nudge, a push to bring it to the surface.

As he hums around her clit and curls his fingers Faora laughs out a moan, muscles pulling tight in a way they haven’t for years – with abandon and freedom and a forgotten ecstasy.

She finds a slight struggle in breathing as he sits back on his heels, wiping a thumb under his mouth with a devious smile. She grins, pushing away from him with a foot on each shoulder, crawling back up the bed.

“It seems you may be of Krypton after all.” She allows, letting her legs fall open, inviting him closer.

His lack of delay in joining her, covering her slight form with his own, signifies the impact of her message has hit its mark and she allows him to slide back into her sensitive body without any conditions.

Naturally such generosity is only temporary, and she flips them almost as soon as he’s completely inside, sitting up and bracing her hands on his stomach. She rides him hard, hard enough for her thighs to protest, the bed to creak dangerously beneath them. He tries to exert some control over her but soon learns his place, smoothing his palms up to cup and tweak her breasts, squeezing when he particularly approves of her pace or angle.

Once she finds the right combination for her pleasures she exploits it entirely, fiercely seeking a second orgasm with little concern for the man beneath her. He counters this with a rhythm of his own which culminates in him pulling her back beneath him again and hiking her legs high around his waist. Faora growls, unimpressed, struggles to right them but she’s taught him too well, too efficiently and despite her superior strength her wish to remove him lessens with each thrust.

She reaches her second release with his teeth at the rise of her breast, her hands in his hair and her own, tugging sharply when she shudders through the euphoria.

He doesn’t let up now, hunting what she has consistently refused him and is now too gratified to fight. She pulls his head level with hers, taking his lips harshly, the taste of herself lingering. He pulls away when the need for air, disadvantaged as he is, becomes too great to bear, ducking his head to rest on the bed beside her own.

“Join us, Kal-El.” She whispers, biting at the skin beneath his ear. He grunts, but doesn’t reply, doesn’t break his rhythm.

“You could be so much more.” She intones, hand stroking down the sweat-slick muscles of his back, nails scratching lines that will remain long after she departs. “Become who you really are. Embrace your superiority.”

He lifts his head from biting at the curve of her breast, stares into her eyes as he thrusts up twice more before his end hits, and he steals her lips to let her swallow his moan. His pulsing inside her brings a shiver of pleasure to her sated form, a shudder under his palms and a smile to her lips.

For all they’ve shared, for all she’s given him to illustrate the myriad reasons he could be so much _more_ than he has settled for, Faora knows what she saw as he came.

Frustration and desire, yes. But acceptance. Acceptance, and not of her path.

“I can’t.” He says eventually, lips to her jaw. “I can’t. And more importantly, I don’t want to. I don’t need to.”

She sighs, kissing him one final time, taking what he will give her. “Foolish.” She mutters against his lips, before sliding from underneath him and gathering his suit in hands that are only slightly unsteady.

They redress in silence, pieces of their armor, their shields against the truth of each other fitting back into place with the closing of each latch. She turns to find him leaning against the bed, arms crossed over his chest. Impossibly handsome. One of the best of her kind. Wasted.

In a move that he is either too slow to anticipate or too late to counter, Faora darts across the room and slams him back onto the sterile surface, punching the button that sends cold metal around his wrists. He struggles pointlessly for a moment before stilling, recognising its futility. He smiles coolly up at her, an expression she returns.

“Son of El.” She says, leaning over his chest. “You will be the last of your line. Once one of the finest houses of Krypton.”

He raises a shoulder as best he can. “Maybe so. But I will be doing the right thing.”

Faora hums, tapping the symbol on his chest. “Perhaps. As you think.” She pauses, tracing the shape with her finger. “Hope… so pointless.”

“Hope is everything, daughter of Ul.” Kal says. Calm, content. Accepting.

So very wrong.

She walks to the door and disables the lock, turning in the revealed archway at the last minute. “Perhaps, Kal. We shall see how your hope serves you.”

#

Faora walks back into the central room of the ship after ensuring Jax-Ur is left with no intention of asking impertinent questions, coming to a rest at Zod’s right hand.

“How was our guest?”

Faora looks to her General slowly, keeping her face impassive. “Uncooperative.” She says calmly, before looking back out of the window.

She can sense Zod’s eyes on her, lingering and studying her expression carefully for a moment before he turns to concentrate on furthering his plans.

When the alert comes of the hull breach, Faora smiles as she activates her breather. Time for the real game to begin.


End file.
